The day was typical: cold for a winter day, and thinly cloudy. Clouds were not so much floating as paused by something, which got my attention. I stood on the street pondering my odd circumstance. Everything about the trip, report, and the return had been smooth, but each little instance had been accompanied by a dark whisper. A shadow passing through the events of the world, swift and persistant. Then there were these clouds, not an oddly stuffed blanket where some sunlight filtered n brighter than in other places. This cloud cover was thin, grey, and completely even.
The perfect cloud cover was doing something, though it seemed static in the air. The thought, to any one not directly concerned with to the totality of events in the immediate, would be that the wind they felt was pushing the clouds continuosly so that no uneven areas were present. Simple enough. The cold, too, would snap and bite, but there was something underneath that as well. A scent was in the wind and the cold. A metallic sulphurous twinge–very subtle, but there.
Something about the clouds and scent and wind. The cold stung, bit almost, and I needed to narrow this down.
The whispers in the echos of time: narrows it down.
The shadow tiptoeing next to me: narrows it down.
The perfectly even cloud cover: narrows it down.
The agitating scent of the cold: narrows it down.
The wind, chilling the body and moving the clouds….but not affecting anyting else: That was it.
I lifted my head slowly, but with quick realization: everywhere around me, people were bracing into a wind and bundled up against the cold. But the wind wasn’t there. Not bits of litter bouncing about, or dried leaves giving the slightest flutter. The trees above weren’t bending, or swaying in the slightest. Even in the city, at these tempuratures, steam would be belowing from the grates–but there wasn’t a puff.
I stared about, eyes and mind now keenly aware of the juxtaposition of elements. my eyes fell on a dark human form cast against a building wall. Had there been sunlight, this form’s owner would be just around the corner. There was cloud cover however, and stillness. No shadow could be cast.
Then, as if that thought were a yell in its direction, the shadow’s head shot across as if to turn an ear in my direction, and then in darted out of sight. It was sensitive to thought, and that was good to know. If the shadow would have an owner, that owner would be running further down the block.
In the biting cold and with the unknown wind at my back, I gave chase to the shadow.